There was a full moon Labor Day weekend.  The sky was clear all three nights here in Florida.  The moon’s light was filtered as it passed through the humid late summer’s air, forming a bright halo.

Walking beneath the full moon reminded me of the trying months following my multiple myeloma diagnosis.

Believe it or not, the moon played an important role in my initial recovery five years ago in Wisconsin.  Even though I could barely walk, I will never forget stumbling down to the end of the block and back each night.  As I walked, I gazed-up at the moon.  It was my beacon — a symbol of hope.

As I slowly recovered from radiation and chemotherapy, a shattered vertebra, and a pair of broken ribs, I extended the length of my evening walks step by step.  Eventually, I was able to make it up a steep hill nearby and walk a half mile along a dead-end road that overlooked our home.

It was isolated and quiet.  No streetlights — and only an occasional set of headlights — to distract me from my upward gaze.

What is it about the moon?  It always rose above the trees in a slightly different spot, revealing an intriguingly different size and shape.  And the way the sun’s light reflected brightly across its surface inspired me to keep walking.

But that was a different moon than I see now.  The cool, clear spring nights back in Wisconsin allowed the moon to shine crisp and bright.  Now its summer light in Florida seems more diffuse and less clear; a metaphor for my life after a troubling myeloma relapse?

I still enjoy walking at night.  Just me, my dog Finnegan, and the moon.  Half way along my favorite route, I always pause to enjoy the image of my moon, sitting just above a large palm tree and reflecting off the water of a nearby lake.

It’s a breathtaking scene.  Different, yet just as memorable as the Wisconsin moon I followed years before.  I focus and try to sear the image of the night’s sky into my mind, hoping to hang onto it for when I might need inspiration down the road.

Five years after my diagnosis, the moon continues to be a beacon of hope for me and my new myeloma life.

Sick and elderly people often try to hold onto a meaningful activity or image.  It might be working in the garden, watching a sunset, or gazing up at the moon.

My new myeloma life is hard.  It’s difficult and painful getting out of bed in the morning.  I need to take pain meds constantly throughout the day to help me deal with residual bone damage that doesn’t seem able to heal.  And you can call it induction, consolidation, or maintenance therapy.  But by any name, my ongoing chemotherapy has beaten me down.

But when I look up at the moon, none of that seems to matter.  For a brief moment, I want to hang on and enjoy my moon for many nights and years to come.

Feel good and keep smiling!